


Paint a Picture (Of the Perfect Place)

by whenshewrites



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 'minor deity', BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Geralt Deserves Nice Things, Geralt is done with everything, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Idiots in Love, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier is a Nice Thing, Jaskier is a god, Jaskier is a little shit, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, eventually, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24176845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenshewrites/pseuds/whenshewrites
Summary: The thing is, Geralt didn't mean to summon a god (minor deity, whatever). But then Jaskier showed up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 68
Kudos: 488





	1. Fucking Minor Deities

The thing is, Geralt didn’t mean to summon a god.

Or, a minor deity, whatever. Geralt sometimes thought his entire existence was a cosmic joke. Something he’d done in a past life had earned him this and now whatever gods actually existed were laughing. Well, other than the one he’d summoned, that is.

But Geralt couldn’t just walk away.

Not from the kid wrestled to the dirt as he cried out, a much larger boy pinning him to the ground as he tried to pry something out of the kid’s fist. People walked by giving the two disgusted looks and Geralt watched from the sidelines for a minute, before growling and stalking over. He caught the bigger boy by the shoulder and yanked him up, a snarl on his lips.

“What the fuck is going on?”

The kid’s eyes went wide. Geralt thought he was going to pass out for a moment, so he let go. The moment he did, though, the boy stumbled back and turned on his heel, tearing off down the street. Geralt stared after him. Then he grunted and turned toward the other one.

“You want to run too?”

The smaller kid gazed up at him. His eyes were round too, but not in terror or panic. Rather, the look on his face was nothing other than fascination and he pushed himself up, pulling his arm into his chest. Geralt noticed he still had something clutched tight in his fist.

“Did you take something from the other one?”

The kid blinked. Then he looked down at his fist and his expression turned indignant, eyes snapping back up. “Hell no, mister! He was trying to take something from me!”

Geralt narrowed his eyes. The kid opened up his fist to reveal two copper coins, covered in dirt and sweat. Geralt wrinkled his nose. “Hm.”

“I was gonna make a wish,” the kid said, jerking his head toward the well in the middle of the town square. He peered back at Geralt. “What’s your name?”

“Geralt.”

“I’m Mykal,” the kid said, grinning. He stuck out a dirt-covered hand and Geralt stared at it for a minute before grunting again. Mykal dropped his hand, but didn’t look offended, turning toward the well. Despite himself, Geralt followed the kid as he continued to ramble. “I was gonna wish for more coins. Like ten. Or a hundred.”

“A hundred.”

“A hundred,” Mykal said with a grin. He closed his eyes and tossed one coin in, muttering something under his breath with a scrunch up face. Geralt watched in silence. After a moment, the boy opened one eye, then grinned wider, thumbing his other coin. 

Only, a second before he tossed it in, he hesitated. And turned toward Geralt.

“You wanna make a wish, mister?”

Geralt stared for a moment. Then he shook his head and Mykal stuck out his lower lip.

“You don’t believe in wishes?”

Geralt wanted to say  _ ‘fuck no’  _ he knew better to believe in wishes. But the kid’s brown eyes were staring at him like fucking saucers and Geralt found himself unable to say a word. Scowling, he took the coin and glared at the well. He didn’t know what the hell to wish for. He was perfectly content with his incredibly discontenting life.

Somewhere beyond the town square, Geralt could hear the sound of music. There was an old man playing the lyre on his doorstep as little kids danced him with light in their eyes and laughter in the air. Geralt looked at the well and thought that could be nice. Music and a little bit of happiness.

He flicked the coin into the water. It hit with a  _ plop  _ and sunk out of sight.

Geralt rolled his eyes.

“There,” he said, turning back to Mykal. “Happy?”

The kid beamed at him. Geralt wanted to glare back. Instead, he heaved a sigh as the kid laughed, turned, and took off down the street, leaving him alone with the sound of music and a stupid fucking well. One that was  _ not  _ magical.

Geralt scowled and looked heavenward. Was everything in his life a cosmic joke?

He thought so.

* * *

Geralt just wanted to eat, drink, and sleep. In that order. 

He’d come to this town to kill a kikimore and of fucking course, it was a queen. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d faced an army of those fuckers, but it was draining. And the mayor of the town had refused to add a few extra coins to his pay for the inconvenience. 

So yes, Geralt just wanted to eat, drink, and sleep. He was tired. And he deserved that.

It was nighttime outside when the inn doors slammed open.

Geralt looked up from his place in the corner and murmurs traveled through the tavern as a scrawny man with brown hair stumbled inside, a lute strung across his back and wearing the stupidest silks Geralt had ever seen.

The guy stumbled toward the tavern counter and Geralt rolled his eyes, taking another drink of his ale. He’d had it with this town. Tomorrow, he was going to take Roach and with luck, they’d never have to come back again.

Except the brown-haired guy was shouting now. Geralt gazed over the rim of his mug and the man did a full once-over of the room, eyes traveling over everyone in the tavern. The moment blue eyes landed on where Geralt sat, the guys made a noise of triumph and started over. Geralt stiffened in surprise.

He did  _ not  _ need to deal with this right now.

“You!” The man said, dropping down in the seat opposite of him. “Are you the witcher, Geralt of Rivia? The White Wolf?”

Geralt stared at him silently. The guy leaned forward. 

“I’m here to grant your wish.”

Oh, fuck no. Geralt shoved himself up and his mug of beer pitched, sending brown liquid spilling all across the tabletop. Ignoring the looks that were being sent his way, Geralt started toward the door of the tavern and hoped desperately the brown-haired guy wouldn’t follow him.

Geralt never got what he wanted.

“Wait! Wait! Why are you running from me?”

Geralt stalked out into the night. He started toward the stables and heard the sound of slapping footsteps giving chase, the tavern door swinging shut with a slam. A hand caught him on the arm and Geralt swung around with a snarl, scaring the guy a couple of steps back. “Who are you? What the fuck do you want?”

“I’m Jaskier,” the guy said, looking confused. “Or Dandelion, Julian, sometimes the Nightingale Prince. One time, when I accidentally turned a man to ash, they called me the Crimson Avenger. That was odd. As for what I want, I’m here to grant your wish. Did you not hear me before?”

“Is this some sort of fucking joke?”

Jaskier stared at him. Geralt growled, turning around again.

“Leave me alone or I’ll cut you open from head to toe.”

“Well, that’s not very nice,” Jaskier said, starting after him. Geralt shoved into the stables and stalked to the very end, where Roach was being held. The mare whinnied nervously and threw her mane, and Geralt hoped that if he just ignored Jaskier, the man would leave him alone.

It didn’t work. 

“I don’t understand,” Jaskier said, stepping into the stall with him. “You called for me.”

“I didn’t call for shit.”

“You did, witcher, you called for me. This morning at the well.”

That made Geralt freeze. He lowered his hand from Roach’s muzzle and turned around, giving Jaskier a dark look. The man shrunk away a little. “What.”

“You called for music and companionship. So here I am!”

Geralt glared at him. “I did not.”

“You did too.”

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a god,” Jaskier said. Geralt’s eyebrows shot up and the man considered for a moment, before shrugging. “Well, a minor deity. A bard to the gods, you could say. But powerful all the same.”

“And you’re the god of…”

“Simple,” Jaskier said. “Music and companionship.”

“Music.”

“Yes, witcher.”

“And companionship.”

“Yes,  _ witcher.” _

Geralt scowled at him. “I don’t want you. Go away.”

“I can’t just go away,” Jaskier said, sounding offended. “You’ve called me down from the heavens, oh mighty white wolf. I am yours to befriend and command until my purpose has been served.”

“Consider it served.”

Jaskier glared at him. “It doesn’t that way, witcher.”

“Then how does it work. Should I kill you? Open up your guts and send you heavenward once more?”

“Now that’s just  _ really  _ rude.”

“I don’t want you,” Geralt repeated. “Go away.”

Jaskier looked a little murderous now, but Geralt didn’t care. He took Roach’s reins and led her out of the stall, shoving past the man— bard— god— whatever. This was the last thing he needed. Geralt was a monster killer, goddammit, not a babysitter. He could find music and companionship anywhere else.

But Jaskier kept following him. Geralt swung a leg over Roach’s saddle and snapped the reins, starting toward the town gates despite the fact the moon was rising overhead. Even if Jaskier didn’t give up right away, it wasn’t like he could walk the entire time. Geralt rode for days straight sometimes. He doubted even a god would tolerate that.

Except, this god didn’t seem easy to shake. Geralt couldn’t believe this was his luck— a wish came true and this was the result. He fucking hated everything sometimes.

His entire existence was a cosmic joke.

* * *

Jaskier didn’t leave on day one. He didn’t leave on day two either.

Geralt hated to admit the bard wasn’t that terrible with his lute. In fact, some of his songs were nothing other than magical and Geralt did his best to grunt and growl when Jaskier asked for feedback, but he knew the bard could see right through him. Two days and Geralt already felt fucking transparent.

Jaskier strummed careful fingers over his lute as they sat around the fire. Geralt glared at him over the flames but the bard only smiled whenever their eyes met. It was infuriating.

“If you’re a god,” Geralt said. “Why can’t you just get yourself home.”

“Minor deity,” Jaskier said, without looking up from his lute. Geralt ground his teeth together.

“Why are you still here.”

“Because, witcher, you don’t look very fulfilled. Do I look like I’m bad at my job?”

He looked fucking annoying, Geralt thought. Sharp blue eyes, a constant smile, brown hair that flopped over his forehead when Jaskier walked. It was a nightmare. Geralt didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this. 

“One would think you didn’t appreciate me,” Jaskier staid strumming out a few more notes. “Which I find very hurtful.”

“I don’t care about your emotions.”

“Perhaps not,” Jaskier aid. “But what would you say, witcher, if I cared about yours?”

Geralt stared at him. Jaskier smiled. 

“You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t like you.”

“That too,” Jaskier agreed. “But one day, that will all change.”

“One day?” Geralt said, his voice taking a dangerous note. Jaskier didn’t seem to notice it. “What the hell is considered one day?”

“Ten years? A hundred? No one’s ever kept me around for longer than that.”

Geralt clenched his jaw so hard, his teeth gnashed. He couldn’t imagine spending a week with this bard much less a year. Must less a hundred. He might kill himself if he was forced to entertain Jaskier that long. “Is there any way I can hurry the process along?”

“Well,” Jaskier said, thinking. “You could accept me. Let me do the task I was brought here to perform.”

“Could I kill you instead?”

Jaskier looked offended. “I would prefer it if you would not. We do feel pain, you know.”

“But I could do it.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said, lowering his lute. “You could.”

Geralt stared at him for a long moment. Then he grunted and gazed back at the flames, trying to ignore the satisfied smirk that played across Jaskier’s face. That was always an option, he supposed. But Geralt— he didn’t like the idea of that. No matter what this bard was. It wouldn’t be like killing the monsters Geralt hunted for a living.

Jaskier strummed a few more notes and sang a soft song about a man and his fear of the unknown. Geralt found himself half-listening, eyes fixed on the flames. After a few minutes, Jaskier lowered his lute again. 

“Why did you call me here, witcher?”

Geralt looked back up at him. Jaskier tilted his eyes, blue eyes impeccably soft. 

“You don’t seem to want me. So why call?”

“It was a mistake.”

Jaskier’s face went through a few emotions. His scent changed and the bard nodded, glancing down at the dirt beneath his feet. “A mistake. I’ve never been called a mistake before.”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier ran his fingers along the edge of his lute and then set it aside, dropping his elbows onto his knees. He leaned forward.

“What else would you have wished for, witcher? If you would’ve known it’d come true.”

“Nothing,” Geralt said. Jaskier raised a brow.

“Nothing?”

“There’s nothing I want.”

“There must be something out there,” Jaskier said. “Or someone?”

“I don’t want anything or anybody,” Geralt said flatly. “And the last thing I want is anybody wanting or needing me.”

“And yet,” Jaskier said, leaning forward. A small smile played along the edges of his lip. “Here we are.”

Geralt glared. It was all part of the fucking cosmic joke. “Here  _ we  _ are?”

“Ah, well—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I spent the entire chapter before editing calling Geralt's cosmic joke a cosmetic joke and if that's not what Jaskier is, then I quit fanfic. 
> 
> But also! Yep, I'm back in my bs writing ways. And apparently, because I love Sterek, I also love Geraskier. Who am I to make the rules? I hope you all enjoyed and like always, your comments and support meant the world. Stay safe!
> 
> Come hang with me on Tumblr!  
> [here](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


	2. Fucking Idiot Bards

A week passed and Geralt refrained from killing the bard. 

It took quite a bit of self-control on his part, but he decided there had to be a better way to get rid of the god— minor deity— bard— whatever. Geralt wasn’t going to commit murder yet. Despite what most people believed, that wasn’t always the first thing he jumped to.

Jaskier was testing his patience though.

The bard made literal use of his title. He’d started singing at the first tavern they came across and while Geralt had tried to detain him at first, it was clear Jaskier’s songs were quick to be popular demand. And when it earned them free meals and lodging, Geralt decided he couldn’t complain. 

Not about that.

He could complain, though, about the way Jaskier spent his free time. When he wasn’t singing, drinking, or eating, the bard was flirting with anything that walked on two feet. When Geralt brought it up, Jaskier called himself a lover, not a fighter, and proceeded to flirt with the innkeeper's daughter for the rest of the night.

They didn't get free rooms that night. In fact, they didn’t get rooms at all.

Geralt wasn't a fan of the bard, but Roach was. Geralt tried not to make his betrayal at that obvious, but Jaskier had a way of reading him like an open book. The bard would cackle whenever Roach nosed freely at his neck and slipped her apples whenever he thought Geralt wasn’t looking.

Geralt was almost always looking.

Jaskier was… well, infuriating was one word for it. Sometimes, Geralt didn’t think he was a god. A lonely man with a steel resolution, perhaps. Or an idiot who created his own special identity because he wasn’t loved enough as a child. Or maybe he was just a bard; a bard that stuck to Geralt like a gnat to honey for some reason.

But other times, Geralt was convinced Jaskier really was some kind of fuckery. A month into their newfound, one-sided companionship, Geralt was stabbed. 

Quite literally, in the middle of the street a little past midnight, when he’d been least expecting it. The wound probably would’ve killed a normal man, but Geralt wasn’t a normal man, so it just really fucking hurt. 

Jaskier didn’t take the attack kindly. He shoved the man against the wall and there was a sizzle, a scream, and Geralt smelled something burning. He thought he saw a pile of ash where the man should’ve been but then Jaskier was crouching at his side, and Geralt couldn't be sure.

It was week two when things went to shit.

Geralt sat in the corner with a bowl of something brown and a mug of ale, while Jaskier pranced around the tavern singing, much to the enjoyment of all the drunks. The deity's name was quickly spreading throughout the Four Kingdoms; the bard that traveled with the White Wolf. The spinner of tales, the weaver of songs. The companion to the Butcher of Blaviken.

From across the room, Jaskier winked at him. Geralt glowered into his drink.

Much later, Jaskier came over and dropped into the seat opposite him, face shining with sweat. Geralt raised an unimpressed brow and Jaskier grinned, grabbing his mug and pulling it across the table. “I’ve gotten us free rooms tonight, witcher. We don't have to pay a coin."

“Hm.”

“And dinner. I've gotten us dinner as well.”

Geralt grabbed his mug back, ignoring Jaskier’s indignant squawk. “Glad to see you’re useful for something.”

“Good gods, witcher, you need a nap. Why are you being grumpier than usual?”

“I’m not.”

“You are too,” Jaskier said. “You are wearing that perpetual glare on your face and you look like you’ve just swallowed something sour. Was it my performance? Did I mess up a few notes? Ah, fuck, I knew I should’ve gone with the Fishmonger's Daughter first instead of last.”

“Your performance was fine,” Geralt said. Jaskier perked up at that and the bard grinned.

“Of course it was,” Jaskier said, eyes bright once more. “I’m the god of music and cheer, why wouldn’t it be?”

Geralt rolled his eyes. Jaskier ordered some dinner and offered a wink to the barmaid who turned away, though not after she giggled loudly and batted her eyelashes. The bard turned back around and propped his elbows on the table, peering over at Geralt.

“You still look grumpy.”

“Hm.”

“Of course, you always look grumpy. But today, you look grumpier than usual. Is it the town, witcher? The weather? It was quite nice today. Are you more of a storm clouds and booming thunder kind of person? I suppose that would make sense.”

“Shut up, bard,” Geralt said. Jaskier huffed.

“'Shut up bard', 'stop singing bard'. You know, Geralt, you are the grumpiest human I have ever met. I didn’t come to this land expecting to meet someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“With the scary face,” Jaskier said, smirking at him. Geralt scowled and he laughed. “There it is! That face!”

Geralt looked away. Jaskier continued to laugh, even as the barmaid came over with a plate of food and looked at him coyly. But this time, Jaskier ignored her. He pushed aside his plate and leaned further across the table.

“I’d never met a witcher until you,” he said, studying Geralt's face. Geralt didn’t like it. “Do you all have golden eyes?”

“Why do you care.”

“I’m interested, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “Is the white hair normal? Are they all as grumpy and growly as you? Oh! How old are you, witcher? One century? Two?”

Geralt glared at him and usually, that was enough to shut a person up. But Jaskier didn’t look cowed, shrugging. “You know, you could ask things about me too. It’s only fair that we both know about each other, especially if this arrangement might last for years.”

“This arrangement is  _ not  _ lasting for years.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, eyes dancing. “Whatever you say, witcher. Now, questions?”

Geralt stared at him silently. In truth, there were a lot of things he’d like to know about the bard. Jaskier got under his skin and made him curious like that. But Geralt refused to give him the pleasure of knowing just that. “No.”

“Come on,” Jaskier whined. “Give me one.”

“I don’t have any.”

Jaskier continued to give him a piteous look. Sighing, Geralt rolled his eyes.

“Fine. What’s it like. Where you come from.”

“Oh!” Jaskier said, brightening. “Well, it’s very bright. The weather is always fair. And the women—”

Geralt scowled. Jaskier trailed off, before shrugging.

“But it’s dull, sometimes. Not enough goes on and my songs have all been the same for centuries. There’s no action to write about. No monsters to be slain or battles to be fought. Just a lot of drinking and sleeping.”

Geralt stayed quiet. He didn’t think that sounded dull necessarily— but he’d go mad in a place like that. Geralt's purpose was to slay monsters and fight battles. That’s all he’d known.

“That’s why I come here,” Jaskier said. “The excitement, the adventure, the romance.”

Geralt raised a brow. Jaskier grinned.

“Yes, witcher, I am a romantic. I’m the god of music and cheer, I’m supposed to be. And this place? Scary as it sometimes might be, it's just perfect.”

“Sure,” Geralt grunted. “Perfect.”

“I can’t come down unless someone calls for me, though,” Jaskier said, the smile slipping off his face a little. “Or unless I’m truly wanted here. Most times… that’s not the case. I fulfill my task and am sent back up. You’re not the first one to be excited to get rid of me, witcher.”

Geralt wouldn't say he was… excited to get rid of Jaskier. He just wasn’t inclined to keep him around for decades to come. Still, though, he didn’t say anything. And when Jaskier reached for his mug of beer again, Geralt didn’t say anything either.

“Have you ever had a travel companion?” Jaskier asked. “Before me?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been traveling for years? Longer?”

“Longer,” Geralt said flatly. Jaskier looked a little sad.

“That must be awfully lonely.”

Geralt scowled. He didn’t think so. And he didn’t like this— this bard— thinking so.

But before Geralt could say anything else, a tall, dark-haired man dropped in the seat beside Jaskier. Geralt sat up, fingers stretching for his blade, and even Jaskier startled. But the man only flashed a charming smile and completely ignored Geralt, turning to face Jaskier.

“Your music, bard,” the man said. “Is the finest thing I've ever heard.”

Jaskier blushed. Geralt set his jaw.

“Truly,” the man said. “I’ve traveled to more towns than I can count and heard numerous songs. But yours— they are more than music. It’s like magic.”

Jaskier’s eyes brightened even more. Geralt glared at the man. 

He had a shortly-trimmed beard and dark eyes. He was dressed in fairly nice clothes, but Geralt didn’t think he was a royal. Not with the horn clipped to his belt or the bow slung across his shoulder. A hunter, most likely. Geralt still didn’t like the sight of him.

“Thank you, good sir,” Jaskier said. “It’s wonderful to hear such praise.”

“Truth, not praise,” the man insisted. He offered a hand. “Beric.”

“Jaskier,” the bard said, accepting his hand. Geralt ground his teeth harder together. To his mounting irritation, Beric didn’t even glance over at him. It was as if Geralt wasn’t there.

He was a fucking witcher, he was always there. 

Except the two kept talking and Geralt might as well have been a shadow. He finished his ale and ordered another, then two more. By the time the rest of the tavern was emptying out, Geralt was at the end of his patience and he shoved himself up with a grunt, shaking the table and making Jaskier yelp. The bard turned toward him, eyes wide as if he’d forgotten Geralt was even there.

He probably had. 

“Geralt? Are you heading up?”

“Yes,” Geralt grunted. “You can stay.”

Jaskier glanced over at Beric. The man smiled and Jaskier’s face turned pink again, and he turned back to Geralt, nodding. “I may not return tonight.”

That was enough to make Geralt growl. He grabbed his swords and pack, slinging them over his shoulder, and started toward the stairs. He didn't really know why he was so angry. It wasn’t because it was a man Jaskier so openly flirted with this time. It was… fuck, it was nothing. Geralt was just tired.

He shoved into their room and took the bed closest to the window. If Jaskier decided to come in after all, Geralt didn’t want to know what time and he didn’t want to listen to him stumbling around in search of the second unoccupied bed. He wanted to sleep right through it. Because he was fucking tired.

Except Geralt didn’t fall asleep. He laid in the silence and scowled at nothing, wondering if Jaskier really was going to come back. Then he hated himself for wondering. Then he hated himself for hating himself and remembered that Jaskier didn’t plan on coming back tonight.

Still, Geralt found himself listening to the quiet stillness of the inn. He could hear snores coming from the wall opposite his and other, more disturbing sounds coming from the other rooms around him. Somehow, during the two weeks he and Jaskier spent traveling together, Geralt had come to know Jaskier’s heartbeat. It hadn’t been on purpose of course, but Jaskier’s was different _.  _ It was always beating faster than everyone else and it was always so  _ annoying _ .

Geralt couldn’t find it now. That got underneath his skin like nothing else.

Geralt tried to sleep for what felt like another few hours, but it might’ve been only a few minutes. Then, grunting, he shoved himself up and stalked out of the room. He didn’t really know what he planned on doing, but he’d be relieved just to know the idiot bard was still in the inn. Downstairs, maybe. Or… Geralt scowled and nearly turned right back around. But he didn’t.

There were a few blackout drunks downstairs and a tired-looking barkeep wiping a dirtied rag down the counter. The man looked up as Geralt approached and his expression turned guarded, but Geralt really didn’t care.

Jaskier wasn't downstairs.

“The bard,” Geralt said, looking at the barkeep. “Did he ever go upstairs?”

“Bard?”

“Yes, the bard,” Geralt ground out. “Brown hair, blue tunic, carries a lute everywhere he goes. He performed for our lodgings, dammit.”

The barkeep drew back, looking a little startled. Geralt forced himself to take a deep breath. 

“He was with another man earlier. A hunter.”

“Oh!” The barkeep said, nodding. “Beric the Grim. He’s no simple hunter, witcher, he does bounties. Here after some creature he’s been pursuing for years, I heard.”

Geralt stiffened. “What?”

“Some magical creature,” the barkeep said. “Grim’s a persistent one. Rumors say he’s been alive for centuries. Witchcraft.”

“Is he staying here?”

“In my establishment?” The barkeep laughed and shook his head. “Nay, he left a couple of hours ago. With your bard, if I recall correctly. Scared that one off already, ay, witcher?”

Geralt growled. The barkeep drew back and Geralt turned around, marching right back upstairs and into his room. He grabbed his bag and blade and shoved back out. The barkeeper looked surprised when he saw Geralt come tromping back downstairs. 

“You leaving? Can’t take a simple jest?”

Geralt ignored him, shoving out the door. It was nearing dawn, the sky turning a faint pinkish color. Geralt stalked into the stables and Roach whinnied the moment she saw him. She knew his moods better than Geralt most of the time. 

Geralt led her out of the stables and onto the empty street. It was too quiet, too still. There was a hooded figure huddled on the closest corner, though, and Geralt moved over, leading Roach by the reins. It was a frail old man hidden underneath the hood, looking up with a pale face as Geralt loomed over him.

Geralt dug a coin out of his purse and flipped to him. The man caught it with a surprised noise. 

“Two men,” Geralt said. “One brown-haired with a lute, one dark-haired with a bow. Left the inn a couple of hours ago. Did you see where they went?”

Wordlessly, the man pointed toward the town gates, and Geralt cursed. He pulled himself over Roach’s saddle and snapped the reins.

Two weeks ago, he probably would've been rejoicing at the loss of the bard. But as Geralt rode out of town, alarm rising in his throat, that thought didn’t even cross his mind. Only Jaskier and his fucking safety did.

Geralt would be pissed if the idiot was already dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I know where my unplanned stories are going. Other times, like now, I make it up as I go along. But hopefully this story is coming out okay? The comments and support you guys leave make my day!


	3. Fucking Bounty Hunters

Jaskier woke up with his hands chained behind his back and a thick fog in his head. He blinked a few times and groaned, peering through half-lidded eyes at the darkness around him. 

He could smell smoke; a fire. When his eyes adjusted, he spotted a man sitting across from him, hunched with his hands held against the flames. For a moment, Jaskier’s heart soared and he leaned forward, a stupid grin on his face. “Geralt! Geralt, I knew you’d save me.”

Except, when his vision adjusted, Jaskier realized it was not in fact, Geralt. He startled and wilted back as he recognized the man from the tavern. Beric.

“You?”

“Me,” Beric said, grinning. The expression looked menacing in the firelight, white teeth gleaming and eyes reflecting the flames. He looked more like a demon than a man, Jaskier thought. “How was your nap, little god?”

“Like being knocked out on the edge of town and waking up sitting across a psychotic arsehole,” Jaskier said, anger in his words. Beric only chuckled.

“You don’t know who I am, do you, Julian?”

Jaskier raised his chin at that. But sudden uncertainty trickled down his spine like cold water and he swallowed hard, not answering. Beric grinned.

“I’ve been hunting you for decades, you know. I’ve been alive nearly as long as your witcher friend.”

“Hunting me?”

“Oh, there’s nothing like the thrill of the chase,” Beric said, a sharp gleam in his eyes. “Of course, I’ve never gotten this close before. You wouldn’t remember me, little god, as you wouldn’t remember the names of those you’ve aided before you. It all goes away after a while, does it not? The memories. The people of our little world.”

“You know me,” Jaskier said, and there was no question in his words. Beric’s face turned hard, grin melting.

“I was one of your mortals, bard. But I was so much more.”

Jaskier pulled back at that, tugging uselessly at the chains that shackled his hands behind his back. Beric chuckled and watched him with a raised brow, as if Jaskier’s attempts were amusing. 

“You’re not getting out of those, bard. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Jaskier asked, a small tremor to his voice. He swallowed hard and tried to force it away. “What are you? Not a simple hunter, quite clearly. A bounty hunter, then?”

“I’ve been called many things but yes. A bounty hunter is one of them.”

“You know, I was in the presence of a witcher,” Jaskier said. “What, am I worth more than one of those? You should see his hair. Very nice, very soft when he wants it to be. And those eyes. I asked, but he didn’t answer. Are all witcher’s eyes golden?”

“The Butcher of Blaviken is not my target,” Beric said, looking angry at the very mention. “He’s not the one I’ve been hunting for years.”

“Shame," Jaskier said. "Because he’ll kill you all the same when he comes.”

“The witcher won’t come for you,” Beric sneered. “Why would he risk his life for bard he’s been trying so hard to get rid of? I caught your trail the moment you came back into our world, Julian. I heard the stories of the gifted bard who appeared out of nowhere and proceeded to follow around the Butcher like a lost puppy. It’s sad, really. I wanted you, but he does not. And he never would have.”

“We are friends,” Jaskier said. Though, there was a fog of uncertainty suddenly clouding his mind. Geralt had certainly never called him a friend. And he’d certainly never really wanted Jaskier around either. 

Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure Geralt would come. After all, Beric had taken Jaskier right off his hands, hadn’t he?

“Don’t worry,” Beric said, seeing his face. “I’m not going to kill you. Not yet, at least. You left me, Julian, even though I begged you not to. You said your task was fulfilled and you had no choice. But that’s a lie, there’s always a choice. And you chose to leave me.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” said a gruff voice. Jaskier startled as a silver-haired man came out of the looming darkness and a grin cracked across his face. He yanked against the chains behind his back and leaned forward.

“Geralt!”

Beric just managed to yank up the sword at his side as Geralt swung. The nighttime air rang with the sound of metal against metal and Jaskier scrambled away, his back ramming into the nearest tree. He cursed and tried to twist to get a good view of the shackles that bound his wrists, but he couldn’t.

Jaskier hadn’t seen Geralt in action yet, but the witcher was terrifying. Beric— hundred-year-old Beric— was a force to be reckoned with too, though. Jaskier winced at the sound of each blow and the firelight caught each blade as it swung through the air.

“Good gods,” Jaskier muttered to himself. 

Suddenly, Geralt swung too hard as his eyes darted to Jaskier for just a second, and his sword sunk three inches into the nearest tree. Beric grinned and drove his own blade forward, and Geralt yanked away a little too slow.

“Geralt!”

The witcher grunted as Beric’s sword caught his arm, slicing through armor and tunic material. Jaskier heard a faint whinny from the trees and Beric sneered with bloody teeth— but Geralt only growled, unsheathing a long dagger. Before Beric could swing again, he launched himself forward and tackled the hunter to the ground.

It was a blur of limbs, angry witcher noises, and flashing blades for a moment. Then a pained shout shattered the air and Geralt drew back, his dagger sunken deep into Beric's shoulder.

Jaskier blinked from his spot on the ground. Geralt spared him a glance and rolled his eyes.

“Idiot bard.”

Beric laughed at that. It was a cold, angry sound that made Jaskier shudder. “He’s not your bard, don’t you know that, witcher? He’ll leave you soon enough and won’t ever return. In fact, he won’t even remember you in a few decades. Don't you realize that?”

“I could only be so lucky,” Geralt grunted. Jaskier, despite himself, couldn’t help but feel a little stab of hurt at that. He shook his head and tried to remind himself that Geralt had come for him. Geralt had come to help him. The witcher must care, even if it was just a little bit.

“Then you’re a fool,” Beric sneered. “I could’ve taken him off your hands, Butcher. I still could!”

Geralt looked from Beric to Jaskier for a moment. Jaskier’s stomach did something strange and suddenly, he wasn’t so sure anymore. But then Geralt’s eyes hardened and he pushed himself up, stalking toward his sword. With one hard yank, he pulled it from the trunk of the tree and turned back toward the wild-eyed bounty hunter.

“I don’t need your help,” Geralt said. “I can take care of the bard myself.”

Jaskier didn’t know what he meant by  that _.  _ But for some reason, it didn’t strike him with dread like Beric’s earlier words had earlier. There was no venom in Geralt's voice. Just a hint of mild exasperation.

“Don’t,” Beric said, seeing the sword. “He’ll never want you!”

Geralt poised his sword above the man's heart and Jaskier looked away as he drove down. He couldn’t help it; he’d sung of the horrors of the world before, yes, but Jaskier still couldn’t make himself look. There was a difference between the stories and the reality of it all. 

He only looked back when Beric was limp and Geralt had withdrawn his sword. The witcher glared down at the body for a moment before turning away with a grunt and moving over.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said quietly. The witcher wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Idiot bard.”

He didn’t say anything else, but there was a hint of concern to his tone that made Jaskier smile slightly. Geralt eyed his shackled wrists and then grunted, ripping the chainlink part of them apart. But he didn’t do anything to the shackles.

“Those are enchanted. We’ll need a mage.”

Jaskier eyed the two cuffs around his wrists before sighing. “That’s going to make playing the lute awfully hard— wait. My lute!”

Geralt gave him a confused look but Jaskier ignored the witcher, rushing past him and searching through Beric’s things. His lute was nowhere in sight, though, and Jaskier cursed loudly, kicking at the dead hunter’s bag. 

“Bloody arsehole! He did something to my lute!”

Geralt regarded him silently. Jaskier dropped down in front of the fire and glared at the flames, rubbing at his cuffed wrists angrily.

“Bloody arsehole.”

Geralt looked like he was going to say something for a second, but then he grunted and turned away, moving into the trees. Less than ten seconds later, he came back out with Roach and their bags. Jaskier’s too— and hanging next to it, his lute. Jaskier was on his feet in an instant, a bright grin cracking across his face.

“Geralt! Why didn’t you say something?”

“I… brought your lute,” Geralt said, looking constipated. Jaskier grinned and moved forward, running a hand down Roach’s mane before grabbing his lute and hugging it into his chest. He gave Geralt a look of pure adoration.

“I knew you would warm up to me eventually.”

“I haven’t warmed up to shit.”

“You have too,” Jaskier said, grinning at the man. “You didn’t let me die and you brought my lute. I’m wearing down your walls, witcher!”

“Hm.”

Jaskier watched Geralt move over to sink down in front of the fire, wiping his sword off on the grass at his feet. Patting Roach on the muzzle one more time, Jaskier moved over and sank down across from him. He made special care not to look at the body lying a few feet away. 

His stomach roiled every time he did.

“You came for me,” Jaskier said, softer this time. “Because we’re friends?”

Geralt didn’t answer that. Jaskier hummed and glanced down at his lute, tracing careful fingers over it. There were little markings carved into the wood and the instrument was of the finest quality. It was something from his home; Jaskier would’ve been heartbroken without it.

“When did you realize I was gone?” he asked thoughtfully. Because Jaskier didn’t know how long he’d been knocked out, but dawn was only tipping over the treetops at this point. Surely, it hadn’t been that long. He'd been taken during the night, after all.

“You didn’t come to bed,” Geralt said after a moment. Jaskier eyed him.

“I told you I wouldn’t.”

Geralt’s golden eyes wouldn’t meet his own. Realizing he probably wasn’t going to get much else out of the witcher on that subject, Jaskier leaned back with a small sigh. The shackles on his wrists jangled with the movement. 

“How will we get these off again?”

“I… know someone,” Geralt said. Jaskier raised an eyebrow, but the witcher didn’t say anything else. Jaskier pursed his lips and nodded.

“Well, thank you, Geralt. I had no doubts you would come.”

Geralt’s jaw ticked. Jaskier turned his attention to the flames and strung a single note out of his lute. It still sang just as beautifully, he thought. Jaskier smiled quietly.

So maybe he’d had a quick doubt or two, but Geralt didn’t need to know that now. Because the witcher had come for him in the end.

_ Because they were friends? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, I haven't updated this for a hot second. But here we are now! I have no idea where this fic is going to go, but it'll be a fun trip to the end. Hopefully. The comments/support you guys leave makes my day! Stay safe out there <3
> 
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> [here](https://when-she-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/)


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